


the rest of me (is mere appendix)

by behindtintedglass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 18:50:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10973238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindtintedglass/pseuds/behindtintedglass
Summary: There are things they can now finally discard... because they now have each other.





	1. death is not the worse option

John had to remind himself that he was angry. He had a right to sulk as well, didn’t he? He valiantly tried to ignore the way the other man was rummaging inside the freezer in their kitchen, and instead he bravely concentrated on washing the dishes with a renewed fervor; his ponce of a flatmate could never be bothered with something so mundane. John could hear the rattling sound of ice cubes in the background, and he could see from the corner of his eyes the way his flatmate was wrapping several of them in a towel. _Good, he knows first aid,_ was his immediate thought, and then he inwardly cursed himself for being concerned. _You’re not supposed to care, remember?_

After several minutes of strained silence, Sherlock finally spoke.

“John, I know you’re still angry at me,” he said softly. “But I’m going to need your help with wrapping the bandages.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added: “I think my wrist might be sprained.”

John closed his eyes and let his chin drop to his chest in resignation. Damn his doctor’s instincts for kicking in. Damn him for being a decent person who couldn’t stand to see anyone hurt.

“I’m going to get my medicine kit from the bathroom upstairs,” said John, his voice carefully neutral. He wiped his hands and turned to look at his flatmate, who was resting his injured wrist on the table while his other hand was pressing a cold compress on it. The doctor in him couldn’t help but feel relieved at Sherlock’s proficiency, and the corners of his lips lifted in approval, before he schooled his expression once more. “Keep that wrist elevated and don’t move.”

A few minutes later, with his medical kit in his hand, John found Sherlock waiting in their sitting room. His injured hand was now resting on the arm rest of their chair. John sighed. “You know, Sherlock, when I say ‘don’t move,’ I do actually mean it.”

“The lighting is better here,” Sherlock insisted. “And it’s safer to apply first aid here than in the kitchen. There are certain chemicals that might… interfere with the healing process.”

John’s brows crinkled and he opened his mouth to ask, before he thought better of it and shook his head. “I don’t even want to know,” he muttered.

He pulled a chair to sit in front of Sherlock and placed the kit on the table beside them. Slowly, he reached out and gently examined Sherlock’s hand. “It’s starting to swell,” said John in concern. “I would have taken a look at this earlier, but you just _wouldn’t keep still_.”

Sherlock sniffed airily. “The kidnapper had to be taken into custody. I couldn’t stop just because of an injured wrist.”

 _‘I couldn’t stop._ ’ The words were seared into his mind. John was very carefully not looking at Sherlock. “And when I say ‘wait…’” _for me,_ he silently added, “I mean that too.”

Sherlock hissed sharply when John’s fingers probed a tender spot. “Sorry,” said John softly. He lightly caressed the reddish-purple bruise that was beginning to bloom on Sherlock’s pale skin. “You’re lucky all you got out of that business is a sprained wrist. Why in the world did you jump out of a window?”

Sherlock glared at him. “I did not ‘jump out of a window,’ John. I was catching a criminal. He was trying to escape. I had to tackle him to the ground.”

John rolled his eyes. “So we’re going to play the semantics game now. Fine, then. Why in the world did you tackle the kidnapper to the ground which was _four floors below_ the window? What the hell were you _thinking_?”

Sherlock looked at John with that inscrutable gaze of his. “I admit, I wasn’t exactly thinking at the time. He was shooting at you.”

John gaped at him. “I know you tend to forget this at times, Sherlock, but I _am_ an army doctor. Dodging bullets is what I _do_.”

“You’re an _invalided_ army doctor,” Sherlock blithely corrected. “And _clearly_ you haven’t managed to avoid _one_ particular bullet in your lifetime. You’re not invincible, John.”

“Well I hate to break it to you, Sherlock, but _neither are you_.”

A heavy silence fell upon both of them. John was the first to break eye contact as he reached inside the kit to pull out a roll of bandages. He put aside the cold compress Sherlock was holding and began to wind the bandages around his hand. Sherlock watched quietly as John began at the base of his fingers and slowly worked upwards towards his forearm, his movements careful but precise, gentle but firm.

“Lestrade once called me in to help identify two dead bodies,” Sherlock said suddenly. “Forensics managed to isolate their DNA, but their identities weren’t in the system, so the police had hit a dead end.”

John blinked at the bizarre non-sequitur.   “Surely they would have had other means of identifying the corpses?”

Sherlock shrugged. “The ID’s and papers the victims were carrying turned out to be fake. Apparently, they were illegal immigrants. Just entered the country, in fact.”

Intrigued despite himself, John asked, “So how come the police couldn’t identify them? Surely they could’ve passed around some photographs or something?”

Sherlock looked at him. “They were in a car accident, John. Their faces and their bodies were mangled beyond recognition.”

John drew in a sharp breath. “That’s horrible,” he said softly, genuine sympathy radiating from him in waves. “So did the police eventually find out who they were?”

“Eventually, yes. I couldn’t believe they were so _slow_ ,” Sherlock huffed, and John had to stifle a smile. “They just needed the starting point I gave them. I told them that the man was obviously a musician and that the woman was clearly a writer.”

John’s blinked. “What?”

“To be more precise, the man was a guitarist. The woman was clearly a writer in the most traditional sense, for she used a paper and a pencil whenever she wrote. She was probably as technologically illiterate as you—”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John interrupted. “ _How_ did you know what they were?”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinked as his thoughts were derailed. “Because of their hands, of course.”

“Their hands?”

“The man’s left hand had calluses on four of his fingertips, and down the length of the side of his forefinger, but not the thumb. It’s the kind of calluses one acquires over time when the tips of one’s fingers are continuously pressed and slid against the strings of a guitar’s fretboard.   The man’s calluses were hard, so it suggested that he didn’t just play the guitar casually but professionally, almost constantly.”

Sherlock’s other hand was thoughtlessly waving and gesturing in the air as he spoke, and John was mesmerized both by the movements and by the almost hypnotizing quality of Sherlock’s voice, that tell-tale dip in his register which occurred whenever his words were scrambling to catch up with how fast his brain was operating.

“Now the woman had only one callus on her left hand, a circular corn of hard skin on the side of her middle finger, near the tip. She was a bit trickier to figure out, and it was only when I saw the grey smudges on the outer side of her pinky and down the outer side of her palm that I made the connection.”

John thought hard for a moment. “The grey smudges were from pencil lead,” he said when comprehension dawned on him.

When Sherlock’s gaze snapped to his in pleasant surprise, his smile was so fond and proud that John had to shyly avert his gaze. “Yes,” said Sherlock softly. “She was heavy-handed, because the callus on her left hand was made by the indentation of the pencil she held against her finger whenever she wrote. If she had been a sketch artist, the smudges of pencil lead should’ve been all over the back of her hand, especially the knuckles. But the marks of the lead were consistent along her pinky and the side of her palm, which made it more likely that she was a writer, especially because she was obviously left-handed.”

“Because that’s the complaint of left-handed people everywhere,” John mused. “Because our writing system is from left to right, and the smudging of pencil lead can’t be helped. Heaven knows _that’s_ my constant complaint as well.” John shook his head as he reached over to cut the bandage with his scissors. “Sherlock, that’s… _amazing_.”

Sherlock shrugged, but the smile on his face betrayed his obvious pleasure at John’s praise. “It was a bit of a stroke of luck, actually, that their hands were undamaged, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to see those details.”

“But that’s what I don’t understand,” said John as he reached inside the kit for the clips to hold the bandage in place. “You said that the bodies were mangled beyond recognition. Even their faces couldn’t be clearly identified. How come their hands remained so pristine?”

“Ah. You see, John, that was the first clue.”

John looked up at the strange tone of Sherlock’s voice. Their gazes met, and John found that he couldn’t look away.

“The reason why their bodies were so unnaturally mangled was because the victims saw the truck coming seconds before it crashed onto their car,” Sherlock said quietly. “They had just enough time to twist their bodies so that their hands would be protected. That was the first clue that alerted me. Because the only people who’d go so far to protect that particular part of their body were the people who actually made a living out of it.”

John’s brows furrowed. “But that doesn’t make sense. Why would they do that when they knew there was a very good chance that they’d die anyway?”

“It was instinct, John,” murmured Sherlock. “It was something they didn’t even have to think about. Even in the face of death, people tend to protect their most valuable asset. It was instinctual for them… to protect the one thing that was more important to them than anything.”

John felt Sherlock’s fingers curling around his. He dropped his gaze to them, and dimly he noted how different their hands were; Sherlock’s fingers were long and pale and absurdly elegant, which were a sharp contrast to his own fingers, which were stubby and tan and weathered. Yet when their fingers were entwined like this, their differences somehow… _fit_. Like the spaces in between their fingers were created in the exact size and shape for the other’s fingers to slip through, to fill, to hold on to.

“Their hands…” John murmured as his thumb stroked the bandage covering Sherlock’s skin. “Their hands are that important to them?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered. “Even until the end, they protected the most important thing in the world for them. Death hadn’t been the worse option. Living without the thing that gave their life meaning was… _unthinkable_.”

John was startled out of his daze when Sherlock pulled his fingers away. He raised his hand and held it up to his face as he peered at it closely. He wiggled his fingers experimentally, and found that although the bandage was tight and secure, the movements of his fingers were not completely restricted.

“You fixed me rather well, Doctor Watson.” He lowered his hand and caught John’s apprehensive gaze. “Thank you.”

The sincerity and softness in Sherlock’s eyes made John forget, for the moment, all the reasons why he was angry: the frustration at being left behind _again_ , the fear that lodged in his throat and made his heart stop when Sherlock launched himself through the window, the uselessness he felt when Sherlock wouldn’t even let him check for injuries in favor of wrapping up the case.

“You’re welcome,” said John softly, before he cleared his throat and made himself sound as intimidating as possible. “But you better take it easy for the next couple of days, Sherlock. That hand needs to be elevated at all times to stop the swelling.”

“Of course, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock answered brightly, his wide eyes deceptively innocent.

John’s eyes narrowed. “I mean it, Sherlock. I’m going to keep an eye on you to make sure you don’t cause yourself any more injury.”

 _I won’t let you leave me behind again,_ was left unspoken in the air between them.

Sherlock held his gaze for a moment before the corners of his mouth lifted into a small smile. “Of course you will, John,” he said gently. “Of course you will.”

The following morning, Sherlock received a phone call from Lestrade asking them to come to the station to answer a few questions regarding the case they had just wrapped up the previous night. As they were heading out, John watched as Sherlock put on his coat, his scarf and…

John blinked. “Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

John stared. “Aren’t you going to put these on?” He held out Sherlock’s leather gloves.

Sherlock glanced at it before he waved at the air dismissively. “Leave them,” he instructed as he fumbled with the scarf, careful not to aggravate his sprained wrist. “I don’t need to wear them anymore.”

John’s eyebrows rose. He had never seen Sherlock without these gloves; along with that coat and that scarf, it was almost part of his uniform. “It’s pretty cold out there today, Sherlock. And you have an injured hand. Don’t you need the added protection?”

Sherlock raised his bandaged wrist and wiggled his fingers. “I found that I can move much more freely without that so-called ‘added protection.’ Besides,” he added when John opened his mouth to protest, “I don’t need to be protected when I know you’re there to fix whatever damage I’ll get.”

That effectively derailed whatever John had already planned on saying. He blinked, opened his mouth, closed it, shook his head, and tried again. “Sherlock,” he said in a tone that was equal parts exasperation and affection. “You have an unhealthy amount of trust in my ability to fix you.”

“I can say the same about you, you know,” Sherlock answered with a smirk. “The difference is,” and he wiggled his fingers again, “I have proof.”

And before John could even begin to process that statement, Sherlock had already disappeared down the stairs with a dramatic flourish of his coat.

John stared at the gloves he held in his hand.

‘ _The man was obviously a musician.’_

 _‘They had just enough time to twist their bodies so that their hands would be protected_.’

_‘The only people who’d go so far to protect that particular part of their body were the people who actually made a living out of it.’_

‘ _I don’t need to wear them anymore_.’

“John!” Sherlock called from downstairs.

‘ _Even in the face of death, people tend to protect their most valuable asset._ ‘

_‘I wasn’t exactly thinking at the time. He was shooting at you.’_

His grip on the gloves tightened.

_‘Death hadn’t been the worse option.’_

“John?” Sherlock called again, the impatience in his tone now tinged with worry.

He carefully folded the gloves and placed them inside an empty cardboard box lying in the middle of their sitting room. Then he took a deep breath before he called out:

“Coming!”

And John Watson ran down the stairs to follow Sherlock Holmes. He always does. He always will.

_‘I know you’re there to fix whatever damage I’ll get.’_


	2. the battle is already won

John paused in his typing to look up at his flatmate across the sitting room. The telly was on, but the volume was turned down, so it was more of an ambient noise. Neither of them had been watching anyway. John had been typing up their latest case, while Sherlock had been sprawled in their armchair with his fingers steepled together underneath his chin.

It was disconcerting how quiet Sherlock had been since they had returned from Scotland Yard. He seemed to be staring at nothing, and the bluish-white glow coming from the telly danced eerily across his pale features. Even as John had been struggling with the right words to put on his blog, he had also been bracing himself for another of Sherlock’s dark moods following the close of another case. And even though John should’ve already been used to it, the way Sherlock had been watching him closely for the past several minutes still gave John an uneasy feeling, like he was another one of those organisms being placed on a glass slide and examined under Sherlock’s microscope.

He wondered what was occupying Sherlock’s mind at the moment for him to be so deep in thought. And he wondered what Sherlock was deducing about him now. As he ducked his head to return to his writing, however, it was then that Sherlock finally decided to break his silence.

“Why do you always follow me?”

John’s fingers froze over the keyboard. Slowly, he raised his head to meet Sherlock’s piercing eyes. “Would you care to be more specific than that?” John frowned as his gaze settled on the bandages circling Sherlock’s left hand. “How’s your wrist?”

“The swelling has reduced considerably. I’ve been keeping it elevated above my heart like you’ve said. Why do you always follow me? Why do you always go where I go, even when I don’t ask you to?”

_Of course_ Sherlock would be as direct and blunt in this as he was in everything else. John rubbed his eyebrows tiredly. He carefully saved his blog entry for him to edit later and closed his laptop to give Sherlock his full attention. “What brought this on, Sherlock?” he asked gently. “Why are you suddenly asking me this?”

“You don’t answer a question with another question.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You’re deflecting.”

“And you’re being irrational.” John pursed his lips. “Is this about last night? Did you not want me to be there?”

“What I want is irrelevant,” Sherlock said curtly. “You could’ve been shot. _Again._ ”

“And you could’ve broken something worse than your wrist,” John snapped. “You _jumped out of a window_ , for Christ’s sake!”

“I wouldn’t have needed to if you hadn’t been there to be an easy target!” Sherlock shot back.

John inhaled sharply, and Sherlock clamped his mouth shut.

“I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer,” John said quietly, his voice suddenly made of steel.

Sherlock glared at him for a few more seconds before he resolutely turned his head to stare broodingly out the window. John pressed his lips together indignantly before he reached for the remote and turned off the television. Dimly he noted that his left hand was steady as it slowly replaced the remote on the table. Then with a deep breath, he turned his attention back to Sherlock and silently waited for the storm to pass.

He didn’t have long to wait. “Did it ever occur to you, John,” said Sherlock, “That it might be wrong for you to follow me?”

John narrowed his eyes in apprehension. The anger and the hurt were still simmering low in his gut, but he could feel his pulse quickening with worry. “Why are you saying this, Sherlock?”

“Because I don’t always know.”

And it was this simple, quiet admission that stole the breath out of John. “ _What?_ ”

Slowly, Sherlock turned to face him again. Sadness, frustration, doubt, and self-pity were all warring within his grey gaze. “I don’t always know what I’m doing, John. Sometimes it seems like I do, but I don’t. I really don’t. I don’t know everything all the time.”

And underneath it all, John realized with a jolt of surprise, was _guilt_.

“Of course you don’t, Sherlock, that’s not why I—”

“I can’t always anticipate what will happen next. I can’t always accurately predict what the next move should be. I don’t always know where we should go or what we should do or who we should trust.” John’s eyes were widening at the almost hysterical note Sherlock’s words were escalating to. “I don’t always know what’s _right_ or what’s _true_ and if you follow me all the time I might lead you to a _mistake_ , John. Because sometimes I’m _wrong_ and—”

Sherlock abruptly stopped to catch his breath, and John unconsciously inhaled along with him. He hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath along with Sherlock.

“And it might cost you your life,” Sherlock finished softly.

And _there_ it was: the crux of the matter, the source of this ridiculously convoluted misunderstanding. Sherlock’s eyes were oddly bright and he turned away, blinking furiously.

“Sherlock, you self-righteous _twat_ ,” John whispered. “I don’t follow you because you’re right all the time. I follow you because—”

He felt his throat suddenly constrict, and he swallowed, unable to continue speaking.

The chain felt heavy against his chest.

“Because what, John?” Sherlock quietly asked.

He turned at the sound of a clinking chain, unnaturally loud in the quiet that descended upon the room. Sherlock blinked as he realized that John had loosened his shirt at the collar and was clutching at the end of a chain that dangled from his neck. John caught his inquisitive gaze and smiled at him tentatively.

“Do you know what this is?” John asked.

“Yes,” answered Sherlock, before he hesitantly added, “It’s your dog tag from your days in Afghanistan.”

He watched as John stared at it with an unreadable expression on his face. “Did you know I was still wearing it?”

“I’ve… always suspected,” Sherlock began slowly, “but you always wore your shirts buttoned up to the collar, so I never really had proof.” He straightened in his seat and let his hands fold delicately onto his lap. “Until now.”

John’s gaze rose to steadily meet his. “Do you know what it’s for?”

Sherlock took his time in answering, suddenly wary of the direction the conversation was heading. “It’s worn by military personnel, required at all times especially while on the field,” he said. When John remained silent, and seemed to wait for him to continue, Sherlock took a deep breath before he elaborated. “It contains the bearer’s basic medical information, such as blood type and history of inoculations, as well as the bearer’s religious preferences. Its primary use is for identification of the dead or the wounded should they ever be left out in the battlefield.”

“And with these tags, the bodies can be properly treated or disposed,” John quietly added. He ran his fingers over the twin pendants. “If the bearer is killed, the second tag is collected for notification, and the first remains with the body for later identification. That is, if they even come back for it.”

Sherlock felt his chest suddenly tighten. “Why are you telling me this?”

John smiled at him, but there was no humor in his eyes. “You’re the genius, Sherlock. Why don’t _you_ tell me the reason why I’m still wearing it?”

Sherlock frowned anxiously, but the intrigue of solving _this_ puzzle – the enigmatic Dr. John Watson – proved too tempting to resist. He leaned forward in his seat and let his elbows rest on his knees as his steepled fingers touched his lips. He peered at John closely.

“It’s definitely not because of a fashion statement,” Sherlock declared. “It’s not exactly something you like putting on display for people to notice since you’ve been hiding it underneath your clothes all this time.”

The corners of John’s eyes crinkled in suppressed amusement, and he nodded for Sherlock to continue.

He cocked his head to one side, his eyes narrowed in deep thought. “And it’s not because of sentimental attachment either,” Sherlock said slowly. “You’ve been having nightmares about the war, and it’s not something you enjoy reliving.” This time, John’s eyes widened in surprise. “Some of these memories… are things you’d rather forget.”

Sherlock noted with satisfaction the way John’s jaw clenched and the way his fist tightened around the chain. He probably didn’t expect that Sherlock knew that much about him.

“But wearing that dog tag isn’t helping you forget these nightmares,” Sherlock mused. “So why not just discard it or put it away? Why hold on to it?”

John was silent. Sherlock watched him closely, determined to know the answer. Then his gaze flickered to the gun resting beside John’s laptop, and he breathed out, _“Oh_.”

John tilted his head. “Figured it out, then?”

Sherlock looked into John’s eyes. “It’s for security. Wearing it gives you a sense of comfort.” He glanced briefly at the silver pendants. “It somehow makes you feel... _safer_.”

John was looking at him as if he was expecting more. When it seemed that Sherlock was done speaking, John slowly let out the breath he had been holding and shook his head, a small smile on his lips.

“So close, Sherlock,” John murmured. “So very, _very_ close… but not quite.”

Mesmerized, Sherlock watched as John rolled his neck and raised his fist above and around his head to remove the necklace. The chains clinked against each other as John dropped his arm, the tags clutched firmly in his left hand.

John’s eyes were a deep, dark blue as he opened his fingers and gazed at the engravings. Sherlock couldn’t help but notice that, under the dim light of their sitting room, John looked more tired and world-weary than ever.

“I was scared to be without this identification, Sherlock,” John finally admitted quietly. “That’s the simplest and most basic truth, summed up for your judgment. I was _scared_.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed. “Why?”

“Because,” John said softly, “I was scared I might disappear.”

Sherlock swore he literally felt and _heard_ his mind grind to a halt. “ _What_?”

Desperately, he tried to catch John’s gaze, but already John was somewhere far away, caught between a desert sun and a rain of bullets, a place where Sherlock had no hope of following.

“I went to join the war in Afghanistan because I wanted to be somebody. Not in the sense that I wanted fame or recognition, but… I wanted to be _useful_ in this world. I don’t want to waste my life just standing by and doing _nothing_. I wanted to _matter_.”

His right hand reached over to clutch his left shoulder. “And then _this_ happened, and I was sent back to London before I was done fighting, like some discarded piece of broken weaponry and—”

The chains rattled as John’s left hand trembled of its own accord.

“And then I was a _nobody_ again,” John whispered. “I was a limping, wretched waste of space, whose hard-earned medical degree had been _useless_ in curing the pain that _didn’t even exist._ ”

“John,” Sherlock interjected, and he inwardly cursed himself for being truly at a loss for words. Helpless, he could only watch as John curled his right hand over his left in an effort to control the tremors. John let out a shaky breath as he dropped his gaze and stared at the floor as he spoke.

“Did you know, Sherlock,” John murmured. “I used to stare at the walls of my old flat and think, ‘I could die here, and no one would even know. No one would even remember who I am, or what I did in my short, pathetic life.’”

And then suddenly, the gears clicked together in Sherlock’s mind, and the reason became glaringly, horrifyingly clear.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock whispered.

“I figured if I’m wearing these tags when I die,” John said softly, “At least they’d know my name.”

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat when John suddenly raised his head to smile at him. “You know, I think your brother figured me out even before _you_ did, Sherlock. Hell, I think he knew even before _I_ did.”

Sherlock frowned. “What does Mycroft have to do with anything?”

“He told me the truth,” John said simply. “‘ _When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield._ ’”

Sherlock’s brows creased. He had been watching John closely all this time, and after that strange pronouncement, he couldn’t understand why John looked so… _at peace_ with it. “Because I always lead you to danger?” Sherlock asked tentatively. “Because I risk your life everyday when I ask you to follow me?”

John stared at him for a long moment. And then impossibly, against all reason, John’s smile widened. “You were right.”

“I was right.” Sherlock blinked. “Right about what?”

“You _really_ don’t always know.” John was grinning now, and the change that overcame his previously solemn features was staggering. “So you better listen closely, because I’m going to tell you something I can’t believe you _still_ don’t know.”

John stood up and walked to the center of the sitting room. “And I’m actually glad you asked, because I realized…”

And Sherlock could only gape in shock as John promptly dropped his dog tag in a carton box in the middle of the floor.

“I don’t need this anymore.”

Sherlock stared at the twin pieces of metal resting against his leather gloves. “Why?”

John straightened, his shoulders thrown back. His whole body felt suddenly, immeasurably _lighter_ without the added weight around his neck. “Because your brother is right. I _do_ see the battlefield in you. And you’re a war worth fighting for. Because regardless of what other people think of you, or what _you_ think of yourself, you’re a good man, Sherlock Holmes. And I follow you,” John paused, reevaluated his words, and amended, “I _choose_ to walk with you, _beside_ you, because…”

He turned to face Sherlock fully.

“You’re my greatest victory. You’re the battle I’ve already won.”

Stormy grey eyes met a calm sea of blue as Sherlock swallowed and asked, “And what were you fighting against?”

And John’s weathered face broke into a gentle smile. “Being forgotten.”

The spell that had wrapped around them was suddenly broken by the jarring sound of a ringing phone. Both men stared at each other stupidly for a moment before John realized that the sound was coming from his own pocket. He reached inside his jacket and fumbled with his phone as he stared at the name flashing across the screen. “It’s one of my patients,” John muttered. “Hang on, Sherlock, I have to take this call, excuse me for a moment.” He stepped out into the hallway to answer.

Several minutes later, John hanged up, a worried frown creasing his forehead. “Sorry, Sherlock, but I think I have to head out tonight.” He replaced his phone back in his pocket and turned towards Sherlock.   “I have to go visit this patient of mine, he seems to be having complications with his… medication…”

John’s words trailed off. He stood in the hallway, transfixed, not trusting himself to speak, not even daring to _breathe_.

Sherlock was now standing in the middle of the sitting room, his body half-turned away from John. His head was bowed, and his unruly curls had fallen across his face, partially obscuring John’s view of his eyes. In his bandaged hand, he was clutching John’s dog tag.

And with agonizing slowness, Sherlock raised the twin pendants to his mouth and pressed his lips tenderly against them.

“ _I’ll_ remember.” The words were murmured against the cold metal in an intimate caress, a solemn promise, a heartfelt truth _._ “I’ll _remember._ ”


End file.
